Broken
by steelcrash
Summary: Five years have passed since the Reichenbach Fall, and Sherlock has moved on. But his old life is about to intersect with the present.
1. Chapter 1

Broken

Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock" or "The X-Files." I'm borrowing them for a while.

Her name is Mina. She's four-years-old, and he watches her play, the little girl with his eyes and her mother's smile. An ordinary little girl, in so many ways, but a miracle nonetheless. Once upon a time, he would have scoffed at "ordinary," but now, for his child, he craves normal. In her case, ordinary is good. It's safe. He wants that for her, but not as much as he wants her to grow up knowing she is loved, and the most important thing in his life. Five years, and he's been broken and humbled in ways he can't yet quantify. Half a decade since the fall, but it's still like it happened yesterday for him. Leaving London and everything familiar for a new life and a new name. But he's moved past that. Moved on for his child, for the memory of her mother, who she'll never know.

His life hasn't turned out quite how he imagined, but he doesn't dwell on that anymore. The work he does is too important, and being a parent takes more out of him than any previous endeavor in his life. Every day he chooses to move forward. A new day in this second chance he's been given. A gift he's not quite sure he deserves, but he'll take it. It's all he has left, and Mina. For a dead man, it's enough. It has to be. The world has moved on, and so has Sherlock Holmes.

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They have a house in Bethesda, kindly provided by his employers. Close enough to Washington, D.C., to allow a short commute, and also ensuring his handler easy access when he needs to drop by. Holmes still consults, but not his terms. He had no part in negotiating the articles of his employment. He considers the fact he was railroaded, but he doesn't complain about it. The world's former first consulting detective knows where he stands with the Americans. He exceeds their expectations and they leave him alone. Alone meaning they don't bother him at home unless it's an emergency. Work and home are two separate entities now, or at least as much as he can separate them.

His employer appreciates his abilities, and Holmes doesn't take for granted that the people he works with don't consider him a freak. Most of them respect is intellect and deductive skills, and put up with his eccentricities because it's part of the package. He's still blunt with his honesty, but he's learned diplomacy. He's had to. Oh, if only John Watson could see him now. Broken and tamed and brought to heel by circumstances beyond his control.

His brother, Mycroft, has enjoyed the change, and never passes up the chance to mention it. He calls once a week, drops by every few months, making sure everything is going well, and to spoil his niece. Holmes suspects that is the main reason for the visits-Mycroft loves his niece, and never lets his brother forget how lucky he is. Holmes knows, and won't forget. Only two days have passed since Mycroft's latest visit, which included the usual threats to behave himself and a gift for Mina. Mycroft outdid himself this time, Holmes reflected, bringing Mina a dog. A puppy. A yellow, floppy-eared chewing machine that had yet to be named. And he'd asked, as he always did, if he wanted to know how John Watson was doing. The answer, as it always was, was no.

Maybe if it had all turned out differently, he'd say yes, but Holmes didn't want to know. It was a part of his life that was over and done, a life belonging to another man.

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The J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington, D.C. housed the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and the office of the handler of one Sherlock Holmes. Walter Skinner, assistant director of the FBI, was used to handling geniuses, divas, and difficult agents. He'd had 10 years with one of the most difficult in the history of the bureau, and now he was beginning year five of his tenure with Holmes. The man was brilliant, but had a god complex that he'd managed to whittle down to an acceptable level. Holmes knew what was at stake, and had, so far, upheld his part of the bargain, the deal his brother brokered with the American government when he needed a place to stash his brother after he'd faked his own death.

Skinner still didn't know all the details, nor did he want to. Half a decade in the past, and it didn't matter anymore, not to him or Holmes. They understood each other. That and Mycroft Holmes owed him a huge personal favor for taking on the challenge of keeping an eye on his baby brother. Now, Skinner was waiting on Holmes, and a late arrival wasn't unusual. He looked up when his secretary opened his door.

"Sir, he's here," she said, and Holmes followed her in, barely waiting until the door was closed to start in.

"I'm behaving myself, I did not divulge any information of a sensitive nature to my brother, because he's quite capable of finding it out on his own, and before you ask, Mina is fine," Holmes said.

"I'm glad to hear it," Skinner said. "But that's not why I wanted to talk. Holmes, take a seat."

Holmes sat, slouching back in his seat, steepling his fingers. "Well?" he said.

"I got a call from Mycroft this morning," Skinner said. "I have some news to pass on about your friend, John Watson. He was arrested last night."

"What? John? Arrested? For what?" Holmes asked.

"Murder," Skinner said.


	2. Chapter 2

Broken

Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock" or "The X-Files." They belong to, respectively, the BBC and Fox. I'm borrowing them for a while.

Holmes' gaze never wavered, his stare bored into Skinner, and as usual, the other man's expression was unreadable. Skinner sighed, deciding to finish telling his charge the rest of the information he had to share.

"Watson turned himself in, confessed," Skinner said. "A fairly cut and dried case by our standards, but I don't know. . .Mycroft didn't say who or why or anything else. Just that I needed to pass along the information."

"Thank you," Holmes said, standing.

"That's it? You don't have anything to say?" Skinner said.

"There is nothing to say," Holmes said, leaving the office. On the way out, he reached into his coat pocket, retrieving his cell phone, dialing up Mycroft. The call went straight to voice mail, so he texted his brother.

_Just found out news about John Watson from Skinner. Murder, really Mycroft? SH_

He kept walking, staring down at the screen, willing his brother to answer.

_Sorry can't talk. I'm in a a meeting in Moscow. Yes, John turned himself in last night. He's not been released yet, as there is some concern about his mental state. MH_

_Mental state? John's mental state is fine. Isn't it? He's the most stable person I've ever met. Who did he allegedly kill? SH_

_That's the problem. His gun was fired, there was blood, but no body. John won't talk, not even to me. Lestrade tried, but nothing. MH_

_If this is a ploy to get me to return, it's not going to work. SH_

_If I wanted you to come home, no force on Earth could stop me from bringing you back. Maybe you should return. It's been long enough. MH_

_Not long enough, in some ways, Mycroft. SH_

_Let me know if you change your mind. MH_

Holmes kept walking, stopping long enough to hail a cab. He got in, thinking. Nothing could get him back to London. Almost nothing, he reflected. John's predicament was almost enough, but there was Mina to consider. He refused to put his daughter in danger. America was safe. He operated under an assumed name, kept to himself, tried to be invisible. Not just for his sake, but for his daughter's. He consulted from the sidelines, never getting truly involved in the cases they gave him to solve. But he was always on the lookout for anything familiar-in the back of his mind, in his nightmares each night, Moriarty wasn't dead, but watching and waiting. Of course, that wasn't possible. He'd witnessed his nemesis blow out his brains five years before on the roof at St. Bart's. Sherlock Holmes knew dead when he saw it, and James Moriarty was dead. Well, how could he be dead when he'd never existed?

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Holmes lets himself in the front door, going down on one knee, smiling, steeling himself for what comes next-his daughter hurtling herself into his arms.

"How's my girl?" he asks, picking her up, carrying her back into the kitchen, setting her down at the table.

"Good, papa," Mina said. "We colored."

He looks to Doreen, Mina's nanny, for confirmation.

"She colored, we went for a walk, we read and she named the puppy," she said, setting a plate in front of the little girl.

"Well?" he asked, looking at his daughter.

She wrinkled her nose at him, and picked up her sandwich.

"What did you name that cur Uncle Mycroft gave you?" he asked.

"Simba," Mina said.

All right then. He knew better than to argue with the logic of a four-year-old. Holmes placed a kiss on Mina's head. "I'm going out to my office. Get me if you need anything.

Doreen nods, taking her own plate and sitting down by Mina. Satisfied, Holmes leaves the kitchen, going outside, and up to the office over the garage, letting himself in. He sits down, thinking about the morning's revelations. John Watson confessing to murder. Blood, no body. John's state of mind. His friend had PTSD, but as Holmes had told Mycroct, John Watson was one of sanest, most stable people he'd ever met. Maybe he'd been provoked? Or possibly nothing had happened at all, and it was all in John's mind? He wouldn't know unless he went, and he'd promised himself he was never going back. But John needed him. Holmes sighed, getting out his phone, staring down at the screen.

_How long before you can arrange my return? SH_

_Give me 24 hours. MH_

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Holmes says good-bye to his daughter with a kiss and a hug, and she won't let him leave without giving the dog a hug and kiss also. He gives in, and the smile Mina gives is nearly enough to make him stay. But he's been away too long, and has demons to put to rest. Mina's safety while he's gone is assured, thanks to Skinner, who is taking the girl and her nanny to the home of two former FBI agents the AD trusts with his life. Holmes has met them in passing, and knows of them by reputation only, but the fact Skinner trusts them is good enough for Holmes. One less thing to worry about, because the next few days are going to be anything but easy. He climbs in the waiting cab without a backward glance.

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Mycroft's car is waiting at the airport, and his brother's welcome is nothing more than a hug and a wry smile. They don't talk. Holmes knows what his brother has gone through to pull strings and get him access to his friend. He won't say thank-you, because they've moved past such things. Maybe they were never necessary, but over the past five years, they've reached an unspoken agreement. Holmes knows in the beginning his brother was motivated by guilt over his part in the fall, but now there is something like respect between them. It's enough, because it has to be. Holmes knows now family is everything, and he's let members of his family down. His friends. The family he chose for himself, the ones he never knew he needed-John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and even Molly.

"Stop thinking," Mycroft said. "It's not going to change the past, and the next few hours are going to be very unpleasant for you. . ."

He stops, seeing the look in Sherlock's eyes. It's only been since Mina's birth has his brother let himself show emotion. She's changed Sherlock for the better, but there's a ruthlessness that wasn't there before-a resolve that frightens Mycroft more than he'll ever admit.

Then they're pulling up at the building where Mycroft had John moved, if only for secrecy's sake. He's pulled even more strings, angering Lestrade by interfering in an investigation, but he'll get over it, Mycroft hopes.

"We're here," he said as the car stopped. "Would you like me to go with you?"

"No," Holmes said.

"I'll be waiting if you need a quick getaway," Mycroft said as his brother exited the car. Holmes stopped, turning around long enough for his brother to see his lips quirked up at the corners.

"Thank you," Holmes said, heading inside the abandoned warehouse. Ah, Mycroft's usual sort of haunt for his arranged kidnappings. The smile leaves his face as he walks toward the well-lighted area where he can see several of Mycroft's armed military sorts in front of a door. One of them steps aside, holding the door open. Lestrade is waiting inside, and he goes white when he sees him.

"Christ. . ." Lestrade said.

"A second coming, yes, but not quite that impressive," Holmes said.

"Fuck. It's really you?"

"Yes," Holmes said.

"How. . ."

"Don't," Holmes said. "Where's John?"

"In the room beyond this one," Lestrade said. "Now I know why Mycroft was going for stealth."

"I want to see John," Holmes said.

"Be my guest," Lestrade said, opening the door.

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John Watson sits, head tilted back, staring at the ceiling. He doesn't care why he's been roused from a fitful sleep and dragged to an undisclosed location. His life, as he once knew it, is over. It's been over a long time. He's gone on with the motions, but hasn't ever fully recovered from the events of five years before-the day his friend died. The past few days are a blur-he knows what he saw, what he's done, and he doesn't regret it. Not for a moment. Maybe now he can have some closure. It won't be as a free man, but that's all right. Except now the door's opening, and he looks, expecting Lestrade, except it's not the inspector. It's a ghost. Has to be he's hallucinating and he's finally gone around the bend. His rational, scientifically-trained mind is telling him so, he's seeing what he wants to see-an apparition. But on some level, he doesn't care. He's seeing what he's been waiting to see for oh so long.

"John," the apparition says. "It's good to see you."

John says nothing. He only stares.

"John, it's me. It's really me."

"Like hell," Watson says.

The figment walks forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. "See, it's me."

"Bloody fucking hell. . ." Watson mutters, standing, taking a long good look.

Same dark curly hair, unfathomable eyes that can't decide what color they truly are, lanky form, and dark coat and scarf. New lines around the eyes, and something in his eyes the doctor can't quantify yet. Remorse? Guilt? He'll decide later. For the moment, he contents himself with something else. And Holmes sees it coming, but does nothing to stop it. He finds himself on the floor, staring up at the ceiling.

"Bastard," Watson says. "Five years and this is the best you can do?"

Holmes picks himself up off the floor. This time John has gone for his nose, which is gushing blood.

"I heard you'd gotten yourself into some trouble, so I decided to see what I can do to help," Holmes said.

"Go back to where you came from," Watson snapped. "It's too late to help me."

"John, it's never too late," Holmes said.

"I'm glad to see you're alive, but I don't require your assistance," Watson said.

"I'm not leaving," Holmes said.

"Sherlock, go home, wherever that is now," Watson said, closing his eyes. He was not going to beg.

"John. . ."

"I can help," Holmes said.

"With what? I confessed. I've been charged, although it's a bit foggy on some of the charges, but bottom line is I'm not getting out of jail," Watson said.

"Mycroft can. . ."

"Do what? The press is already all over this," Watson said. "Have you seen the headlines?"

"I've actually not seen any of them," Holmes said. "But now that you mention it, I can deduce what they've been saying."

"Lestrade and Mycroft are trying to keep it quiet, but it's not working," Watson said. "It's starting all over again, and I can't stop it. . ."

"What is it?"

"Nothing. Forget I said anything."

"John, I'm not letting this go. I'll be in touch," Holmes said.

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End file.
